Raven's Song
by rookashwing
Summary: The Ashwing siblings are forced into a situation that has only one possible end: the death of their parents.


**Well, this can only mean one thing: I might be working on something. If you haven't read Dark Birds then I suggest giving that a go before delving into this.**

* * *

I wring my hands nervously. This is out of my control.

Papa coughs weakly again, the sound wet and harsh. Mama stopped coughing a few days ago. It wasn't that she was getting better; her body was just too weak.

Elya sat beside me, her hands knotted together and pressed hard against her mouth. Her eyes didn't waiver from our parents.

"_Bormah_. _Monah,_" I listened to her plea in soft, fervent whispers. "Please."

It irritates me in a way I can't describe. Since I could remember, Elyrrya never called our parents by the same names I used. No, Elya just had these _stupid,_ made up words that she clung onto and wouldn't let go of. Sometimes I would chide her about it, give her grief. At this moment, I am not in the mood to disagree with her sentiment.

Please.

Please, spare our parents.

It happened a few weeks ago, whatever this was. Seemingly out of thin air Papa fell ill. First it was aching and then excruciating pain in his muscles. He couldn't walk, couldn't sit up at the table to eat. Mama even took a trip to Morthal.

"I'll be gone a day or so," she had warned. "Don't let your chores fall by the wayside." And off she had gone to find an alchemist for some potions. Mama and Papa would often go out to either Dragon's Bridge or Morthal to do business but what they did, Elya and I could never guess. Whenever either of them returned, there was always some gold and supplies. My sister and I never asked questions, always accepted the ends as facts and ignored the means.

But when mother came back, she didn't have anything that could help. She emptied her knapsack, glittering bottles tumbled out and the red liquid inside slushed around wildly. One by one, her hands had shaken while unstoppering the first bottle and then the second. It was heartbreaking to watch the way she lifted Papa's head and tenderly spoke to him, urged him to drink.

"There we are Colin, that's good," her lips formed the words but her eyes were vacant.

For once Elya had gone completely silent. That first week she did her share of the chores dutifully, no complaint but no laughter either. Going into the second, neither of us said a word to each other. Both of us would sweep, wash dishes, chop firewood. Somehow Elyrrya had grown up to be utterly worthless at cooking so I was left to prepare the meals while Mama attended to Papa; my sister _was _a little skilled at killing small animals with her bow and skinning them, albeit it sloppily. It was about as good a job as I could do, so I let her take that task just so she wouldn't be completely useless.

Now the strong bones that had kept our family upright and strong were crumbling into fine bone meal.

Mama became victim to whatever Papa had succumbed to. Their weak, pallid forms had lost so much weight I barely recognized them. When Mama reached over to grasp Papa's hand, it sickened me a little to see the spidery bones in her hand jaunt out from under her skin. Bluish, fine veins traced across her arm like thick rope.

"Tyval?" her voice cracked.

Elya jumped at the sound of her voice but I rushed to her side, my hands smoothing her lackluster black hair. "Mama?"

Elya had moved so that she was behind me now, one hand on my shoulder. It wasn't difficult to guess that she would rather be beside Papa. Those first couple of days I think we cried silently and ceaselessly while our parents slept with her beside our father and me beside mother. We were out of tears. All that was left was watching the sun rise, waking with it, watching the sun set. Minutes melted and hours disappeared.

Sometimes I would bundle together herbs, hang them to dry for soup and meat seasonings. There were times Elya and I would work in tandem, she helped knead bread while I baked the loaves. Other times she just refused to lift a finger opting instead to sit outside and climb trees. She would return with scuffs and dirt on her dress; if it was brown I wouldn't notice. There were times though she would carelessly wear her nicer blue one and hiding the evidence became harder.

"Tyval," Mama repeated. "If you don't take care of your sister, I swear…"

The lump lodged in my throat refused to be swallowed as a fresh wave of tears welled behind my eyes. "Mama, don't."

Behind me, Elya was already quietly sobbing. Her hand had left me at some point and she dragged a chair over to sit beside our father, crossing her arms and resting her head against them as she cried into his chest.

"If you don't," her voice waivered. "I _will _find a way to punish you."

And then that horrible, wet cough took control of her words. My tears spilled over as I had to watch her body convulse as her chest heaved with each cough.

They weren't satisfying. Each tear that rolled down my cheek felt as empty as I felt; there was no hitch to my breath and mind felt clear. "Don't say that," I begged softly. "You and Papa are going to be fine."

The lie didn't bother clothing itself in deception. It was just something to say now.

Elya didn't bother masking her despair. Each ugly sound that came from her was loud and garish and accompanied by a thick mucus din.

Staring at our parents' hands, I couldn't stop my mind from racing.

_What will we do, what will we do?_

Forcibly, I didn't allow myself to finish the thought. We would be fine. We were always fine I reasoned to myself.

"Oh, my sweet Rookling," I heard my father croak dryly. His unoccupied hand moved to frame her face as she looked upward. "Stop crying. It makes you look like an orc."

Elya made some sound that resembled a laugh but it was too insincere, too forced. I did my best to play along. "She already looks like an orc. Now she just looks like a Dunmer."

"Don't talk like that, Tyval," Mama scolded. "You're sounding like a _Nord_."

That gave us all pause for a little amusement, small smiles and bemused glances. It was our mother's way of saying, "You are a Breton. _Act like you were raised better._"

Elya threw her arms around Papa. "_Bormah. Monah_." Her sobs had quieted but were still present. "We can get a healer. I can travel to Solitude, we have a map. You know I would be quick; I wouldn't linger about." The words sounded less like planning and more like desperate grasping.

Papa shook his head in short, slow motions. "Elya dearest." I watched as her hands gripped her dress tightly. His face was unrecognizable; I was so used to see him always smiling and laughing. Mama was always serious; Papa was the light-hearted one. "You need to be here for your brother. All you have is each other. Don't leave one another alone."

As if realizing we were here, Mama found a little strength to demand, "Have you two weeded the garden today? By Arkay if I've found you haven't…"

Tears streamed down my face at the mention of the god. "Don't, don't say that. Don't invoke his name."

It was Elya who stopped crying and it was she who wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me out of the small bedroom. In the main area of the house, we don't look at one another but speak meaningfully for the first time since mother returned from Morthal.

"What are we going to do, Tristyval?" she questions me softly.

My only response was to sigh. "I don't _know_, Elyrrya." I mimic her on purpose, making her name sound like a curse. "Why don't we just learn some healing spells?" My words have too much venom in them but I can't help it. Raking my hands through my long hair, I feel how knotted some of the ends have become. Tightening my fingers through the strands, my chest feels too strained. Just giving the future a chance to creep into my thoughts leaves me nauseatingly breathless. Elya scowls at me but it's only because I'm scowling at her. We look too much alike, act too much alike. Sometimes I have to remind myself that she's only seen thirteen seasons while I've seen two more.

"Go jump in the Karth," she spits out as she turns. Her dress twists angrily around her legs as she stomps over to the meal table and slams her body into the seat. If either one of our parents had witnessed what had just transpired, they would have made us hug each other. Apologize. Something sensible. As it stood, I just sat beside her wordlessly. I bury my face into my hands, shaking my head.

The evening sun was blazing across the horizon and streamed in through the dusty window, brilliant fire branding itself onto the clean floor and the too clean table. Elya used a finger to trace the line of the beam that ran with the aged lines of the table. When she raised her finger, I could see the faint mark of some dirt on the pad of the fingertip.

"Why aren't we sick?"

It was a question we asked to the other on occasion. There was no way to know what it was that our parents had so I couldn't begin to guess why we were seemingly unaffected.

"Why doesn't the sun set in the East?" I replied, shrugging. "Listen, it's getting late. Let's finish dinner. You can sleep first tonight."

She shook her head violently. "No. I can't."

I understood what she meant. The first couple of days we had taken turns; I would sleep and she would stay up with our parents. Then we would switch places, the other ringing out cloths dripping with cold water while the other slept fitfully. I'm not sure if I would ever sleep well again. Even Elya slept fitfully nowadays.

So we continue our routine. I stoke the fire and rotate the spit as the meat fills the room with a gamey scent. Elya stares off into nothing even though there's a book in front of her. Maybe she's reading. Maybe she's not. I can't tell. When the dinner is finished both of us half-heartedly pick at our food. We say little to one another. Offer no comfort because we know there is none to be found. We don't even bother clearing the table off as we stagger back into our parents' room.

"_Bormah. Monah_." Elya slumps back into a chair and kisses my mother's cheek. "Please."

Her quiet, soft plea is far-reaching. It almost sounds like a prayer, a request.

"Mother. Father," my words mirror her own, hoping to amplify the power behind our desperation.

"_Please_."


End file.
